


Master

by Valmouth



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Jedi Apprentice Series - Jude Watson & Dave Wolverton, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Boundaries, Dom/sub, Guilt, M/M, Master & Padawan Relationship(s), Master Qui-Gon Jinn, Poor Obi-Wan, Self-Esteem Issues, Submissive Obi-Wan Kenobi, The Force, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 02:52:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9579272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valmouth/pseuds/Valmouth
Summary: He kneels down on impulse, hands on his thighs and thighs spread, head lowered and spine straight. It's perfect presentation position, though he doubts Qui-Gon will know it.





	

He doesn’t intend his Master to ever find out but it is somewhat inevitable that he does.

Obi-Wan has resigned himself to the fact that the Force will not spare him. Every moment of suffering or shame or humiliation – he will feel it.

Perhaps this is why he has learned to find some measure of peace with it.

He still hopes, though, not that it counts for anything.

So when Qui-Gon finds him in the lower depths of Coruscant’s grimy nightlife, he isn’t surprised. Ashamed and humiliated, yes, and panicked. But not surprised.

The moment hangs suspended between them, Qui-Gon’s level, enigmatic blue stare and his own mute appeal.

It’s broken when a hand descends to his collar, a finger hooking through the D-ring in the side and pulling. Commanding.

“Pay attention,” he hears, and he turns away from Qui-Gon to say, “Yes, Master.”

When he dares to look around again, Qui-Gon is nowhere to be seen.

He is released soon enough, used and abused but for once not drained of the restless energy that sometimes knots tension in his belly until he cannot breathe without choking. This time it hasn’t worked. He knows why.

He returns to the Temple just before curfew begins.

Qui-Gon is in their quarters, and he is not happy.

“Will you report this?” Obi-Wan asks.

“Explain why you do it while I consider your options,” Qui-Gon returns.

And Obi-Wan is still on a knife edge, on a precipice, and recklessness has always been his flaw.

The Council told him so, all those years ago, and the Council is always right.

He kneels down on impulse, hands on his thighs and thighs spread, head lowered and spine straight.

It is perfect presentation position, though he doubts Qui-Gon will know it.

“I need,” he says.

And it’s all he’s ever been able to pinpoint when it comes to this. Need is all it is.

“Just sex?” Qui-Gon asks.

“No.”

“No,” Qui-Gon agrees, but there is no pleasure in his voice, “I can think of four beings in the Temple who would willingly bed you. Unless there is something you prefer in a stranger that you can’t get in a friend.”

Obi-Wan does not answer.

“Pain?” Qui-Gon asks.

“Sometimes,” Obi-Wan admits.

“You have no reaction to pain on missions,” Qui-Gon muses, “So I take it not all pain arouses you. The context of pain?”

“Yes.”

“Where, and how.”

Obi-Wan feels the blood rise up his neck.

“You still blush.”

“I…”

“I am working very hard with this conversation, Obi-Wan. I expect answers in return.”

“Pain to erogenous zones,” Obi-Wan admits rapidly, “But not wounds. Bruises are allowed. Nothing that breaks the skin. Nothing that draws blood. Nothing that leaves a mark.”

“I see. Go on.”

“I don’t…”

“Where,” Qui-Gon prompts.

“Erogenous…”

“Where.”

“My back, my thighs, my genitals, my chest,” Obi-Wan takes a breath, “My throat.”

“Your throat? Breathplay or just biting?”

The Force has never been kind to Obi-Wan. He does not close his eyes but he lets the distaste soak through his skin, still sensitive beneath his clothing.

“Both,” he admits, and knows with a certainty that Qui-Gon will not approve.

There is silence for a time.

And then Qui-Gon stands. “Clean yourself. I expect no trace of what has happened in that place to remain on your skin. Then go to bed. I will make a decision tomorrow.”

Obi-Wan is obedient.

He cleans himself in the ‘fresher as thoroughly as possible. He slips his fingers into the loosened ring of his anus to wash away lubricant and semen and though he knows Qui-Gon would never know if he didn’t, the intent of the order is far more important than the letter of it. Then he goes to bed and stays awake.

He does not think. He refuses to. Thought is dangerous.

He drifts on feeling and sensation and the clear space of nothingness until finally a light sleep covers him in blissful unconsciousness.

When he wakes, he washes himself again, just to be certain, and then he returns to the living space and kneels again.

He stays on his knees for long enough to feel the bruises form.

Qui-Gon is not impressed.

“Mortifying yourself is not likely to affect my decision,” he says icily.

Obi-Wan does not respond.

“Does it make you feel better?”

“Yes,” Obi-Wan says.

“I see. Do you feel guilt?”

“Yes.”

“And did this start because you wanted to absolve yourself of guilt?”

Obi-Wan does not answer.

“Yes or no, Padawan?”

He flinches.

He hears the sudden intake of breath, and he can sense the revelation before it has even arrived.

Shame washes through him even as Qui-Gon says slowly, “Obi-Wan, look at me and call me ‘Master’.”

He is lost.

Worse, he has lost.

He looks up, and does not dissemble. He opens his mouth and forms the word on his lips, feels his tongue press down in readiness.

“Master,” he breathes.

And Qui-Gon’s eyes are fire and ice, his mouth a thin line so stern that Obi-Wan has never seen such fury directed at him before.

This is a look reserved for enemies and violent attackers. This is a look reserved for those who raise their hands against something or someone that Qui-Gon holds dear.

Qui-Gon looks away but it is Obi-Wan who loses control.

“Master,” he says again, and, “Please. Please, I’m sorry. Please.”

“Be silent,” Qui-Gon snaps.

And Obi-Wan shuts his mouth immediately and drops his gaze.

He fights for resignation. He will do anything for the quiet peace of resignation. For now he finds only the storm of agony, of mute pleading that knots in his sternum and drives up his throat until he thinks he might choke on it.

He hears the sound of his Master rising, for all that Qui-Gon can move swiftly and quietly. He can see his boots approach.

He locks his muscles to stay in place.

And then a hand descends to the top of his head.

It is heavy.

It bleeds warmth into his scalp and crushes down on the knot in his throat and as he finally breathes out he hears a pathetic sound whimper out into the air between them.

And then his Master is kneeling before him, arms snatching him close, and he is dissolving. Broken and bruised but somehow held together even as he falls apart.

He doesn’t cry.

Jedi do not cry.

He doesn’t break position.

He knows he shouldn’t break position.

When he is finally drained, he is gently released.

A finger is placed carefully beneath his chin and his face is tipped up.

“This is my decision,” his Master says, “You will come to me when you need it. Not when you want it, when you need it. I hope you understand the distinction.”

“Yes, Master,” Obi-Wan says.

“I will hurt you. I will use your sexuality against you. I will not take sexual service from you. You will not offer it to me.”

Obi-Wan does not answer.

Qui-Gon’s eyes narrow. “Consider it part of your humiliation,” he suggests.

“Yes, Master,” Obi-Wan says.

“I take it you do enjoy humiliation?”

“I… I find it cathartic, Master.”

“You don’t enjoy it but it has its use.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Then I will humiliate you. I will shame you.”

“Yes, Master.”

“You will set a safe word and a safe gesture. I expect them by the end of the day.”

“Yes, Master.”

“You will work on your self-worth.”

“Yes, Master.”

“You will give me an honest medical review of your condition after every session.”

“Yes, Master.”

“You will meditate after every session.”

“Yes, Master.”

“You are not allowed out of the Temple without supervision for a year.”

“Yes, Master.”

“You will never again take your needs from a stranger.”

“Yes, Master.

“I will not tell the Council.”

Obi-Wan feels the last of his burden lift.

“Do you understand these conditions, Padawan?”

“Yes, Master.”

Qui-Gon watches him. “Then since you have had your first session, we will begin our first assessment. How do you feel?”

Obi-Wan opens his mouth and then closes it again. “Tired,” he says.

Qui-Gon nods once. “I will accept that for now. I don’t want to know what another man has done to you. In the future, when I have finished with you, you will assess your condition taking into account every action that has been performed upon you and I will expect details.”

“Yes, Master.”

Qui-Gon stands up. “Meditate on your need for perfection, Padawan. You will find it the source of your shame.”

Obi-Wan does not say that he is hard beneath the long lines of his tunic, nor that his body is begging to be penetrated. He does not know if he can focus long enough to meditate. His skin is suddenly hypersensitive.

Qui-Gon turns to leave but pauses. “And Padawan, if you ever call another being ‘Master’ again, I will end your apprenticeship.”

Obi-Wan feels his balls draw up tight. He’s right on the edge.

“Yes, Master,” he whimpers, and shifts on his knees.

The rough fabric of his trousers whispers over flesh and his fingers bite down into his thighs.

“Meditate,” Qui-Gon orders.

And he does.

Because the Force will never spare him. And neither will his Master. 


End file.
